


c’est la vie, mon ami

by Snowsheba



Series: a shipping challenge, Dave edition (ON HIATUS) [10]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bullying, Homestuck Secret Santa Exchange 2014, M/M, Soulmate AU, egregious risk-taking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-02-28 03:39:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2717489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowsheba/pseuds/Snowsheba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1. tally marks - scars on one's wrist are not always self-inflicted, and yet, in a way, his were.</p><p>2. eye contact - they were thrillseekers before they were friends, and friends before they were anything else.</p><p>[Written for <a href="http://homestuck-secret-santa.tumblr.com/">Homestuck Secret Santa 2014</a>!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. croyez-vous en chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you love someone, a single scarlet tally mark is sliced into your wrist – painless, bloodless, and ever-present, reminding you of the one who scored it unintentionally upon you. The mark turns black when the other party returns the affection; the mark can disappear if your love is unrequited.
> 
> Dave Strider has two such marks. Both of them are faded lines of scar tissue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea is taken directly from [this post](http://areshelps.tumblr.com/post/98426252509/tuckedshirts-pretendersrpa) on tumblr, and was written for [this lovely person](http://callie-nope-and-the-strilondes.tumblr.com/) over yonder. Happy holidays, and I hope you enjoy!

Your name is Dave Strider, and, at sixteen years of age, you have two scars on your wrist. Beyond the stigma this alone carries, you also have to heft the burden of being in love with the memory of two people, to say nothing of the painfully careful way your family has chosen to take care of you - like you are a delicate porcelain doll, really, look and do not touch.

In reality, there is more truth to that than you like to admit. The shield you erected when the marks became scars is impenetrable, built entirely from your fear of loss, your desire to love, the anxiety that you might hurt someone, that you might, somehow, through no fault of your own, see them dead. Any wayward contact, whether physical or emotional or mental, is brushed away like dust on your shoulder; you can’t afford to let it come any closer. If you did, well. To be honest, you’re not sure what would happen.

You don’t intend to find out.

* * *

His name is Karkat Vantas. You don’t know much about him; he had transferred to Skaia High School after moving from Prospit to Derse, and he’s a new student with no friends and, as far as you can tell, no desire to make them. Dersites, in any case, do not take kindly to Prospitians.

He is seated next to you in your shared biology class – S versus V and all that, apparently no one has a last name that starts with T or U. He doesn’t say a word to you, nor you to him, and you both carefully keep your distance from each other, both verbally and physically. He wears an armband around his wrist, hiding his tally marks under his sweater; you don’t bother with that, though you typically wear long sleeves. Everyone already knows how many and what kind of marks you have, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Someone still comes over to snide you about it anyway. They go so far as to tell Vantas that he has no idea who he is sitting next to.

“Gee, you must be right, fuckface, since it’s the first day of school and I just transferred here from a hellhole back in Prospit, so yes, I have no fucking idea who I’m sitting next to! Congratulations, Sherlock, you’re officially the head of administration in the office of I-don’t-give-a-shit and are looking at a promotion to fuck-the-hell-off-and-leave-me-alone.”

You can’t help it – you let out a snort and cover your mouth with your hand to hide a smirk, the feeling foreign on your muscles because you haven’t found a reason to laugh for a long time. Vantas flashes you a startled but pleased glance, and the interrogator scowls and demands you show the new kid your wrist, as if the marks there define who you are.

The smirk, your temporary amusement – it vanishes as quickly as it had come. You know full-well that they won’t shut up about it until you do, and so you pull your sleeve back to reveal two straight lines of scar tissue. They jeer for a bit, laugh and caw and get other students to mill about and make jokes at your expense, but the words bounce off the shield, away from your brain and away from your heart. You keep your wrist revealed as you drum your fingers on the table, impatient for class to start, for them to go away, and Vantas does not utter a word.

When the bell rings and everyone files to their seats, the teacher sweeping in with a rustle of papers and folders, Vantas turns to you. You don’t know what to expect, but whatever you were thinking, it is far from what he does say.

“This is going to sound creepy and awkward,” he says, and then he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck as he adds, “but – my condolences. For all of the tragedy life forced down your throat while holding your nose.”

You process this for a bit. After a moment, you nod, crack a tiny smile. Your voice is hoarse from disuse as you ask, “You a poet, Vantas?”

“Only in my dreams,” he replies, his face soft yet serious, yielding yet veiled, and his answer is so cryptic you don’t say another word as the teacher calls attendance.

* * *

You see a lot more of him as time wears on, days turning to weeks and weeks turning to months, when you sit by yourself in the corner of any room you find yourself in. It’s not entirely the fault of those around you that you are always alone; you are very antisocial and drift on your own, as no one wants to come near you and you don’t want to go near them. They do not understand, will never understand, unless it happens to them. You don’t want it to.

But Karkat – Karkat is like you, never forming friendships and secluding himself in the corner that is typically opposite yours. And when no one has caught a single glance of his wrist once by the end of the November, the rumors circulate wildly. Some speculate that, like the most pathetic, he draws lines on his wrist with red and black sharpie; others assume he has never fallen in love. Still others claim he is like you. You do not know, nor do you care to know, and he respects and feels the same way about it, never talking to you beyond the normal pleasantry, never prying deeper like all others who have had the misfortune of being seated next to you.

This all changes when you turn onto the path around the school, a shortcut to your home, on a cold, blustery day in December and find him held against the wall by three of the football players who had once done the same to you. They have two cheerleaders there too, bundled in too-thin coats and too-thick scarves, pretty heeled boots and long straight hair, and as you come closer, drawn by something you do not know, you can see they working long, skillful fingers to remove the armband. Once it is off, though, the girls scream, and the football players release him abruptly, startled. There are two scars on his wrist.

You stop dead right there, muted horror coiling your stomach, cold relief washing down your spine, as all five of them back away. They pay no heed to you as they scamper away like the cowards they are, and you don’t hesitate as you come over to him. They beat him up pretty well, and he doesn’t comment when you offer a hand, which he takes.

As you help him to his feet, you notice a red line on his wrist, as you release his hand and silently offer him the armband abandoned on the floor. Your face is expressionless, and he looks guarded, careful as he takes it from you and slips it on.

“Tragedy, heh,” you say, so softly and roughly you wonder if he could have heard it. He does, though, and he gives you a cat-flicker smile.

“I would know.”

You shrug your backpack on more securely and look around; you’re outside on the side of school, and no one is around at the moment, so you don’t have to get the hell out of Dodge just yet – though you’re not going to try your luck, as you turn back to him and say, “Good luck on your new red, Vantas. You’re gonna need it.”

He stares at you for a few moments. His eyes are this sort of brown-red color, and you have noticed before that they flash scarlet when they catch the light a certain way. They do this now, as he gives you a small nod.

“You would know,” he says, and you give him a broken smile as you turn away.

* * *

You dream of John and Terezi that night, when they were both young and beautiful and carefree, with John’s bubbling laugh and Terezi’s hyena cackle, wide smiles of happiness and mirth. You dream of the gauntness of John’s face, the fragility of his bones and skin, his paleness in death. You dream of the bloody mess of Terezi’s head, the falsely peaceful arrangement of her in the coffin as you had walked back, stroking the scar on your wrist.

You awaken with your face covered in dried tears and wonder what had brought upon the memories now, of all times. The dissonance between you and your brother had grown only wider as the years had gone by, and none of your immediate family ever dared bring up the topic. The only keepsakes of the two you love remain hidden in a locked drawer of your desk; a drawer you haven’t opened in over two years.

 _Karkat_ , you think with a strange, distant, disconnected fondness, as you turn over and close your eyes.

* * *

You wake up the next morning to find a new line next to your scars, and the sight of it sends you into shuddering convulsions. You curl up on the bed and shove the palms of your hands against your eyes as traitorous tears sting threateningly, the covers bunching up around you, your breath whistling through your teeth as you grind them together.

You had worked so hard to keep up your guard, to never reach out to anyone, to keep a distance between yourself and all that had happened to you, to hold the flashbacks at an arm’s reach, to tire yourself out so thoroughly each day so your dreams wouldn’t shake you awake in sweat and tears. You had succeeded for four years, because no one knew how to reach out to the boy who had fallen in love two times and somehow left death in his wake.

But _he_ had.

Karkat Vantas, new kid from Prospit, who had glanced into your shades and seen right through your soul. You hadn’t meant to see the scars on his wrist; you hadn’t thought it would affect you so deeply. But it had, slipping through your veins, skittering across your heart, sinking into your bones, clenching tightly in your stomach: Karkat Vantas is like you, and you hardly know him, and you are in love. There is absolutely no doubt, and as you shake and shiver and uncurl, struggling to sit upright and put your feet on the ground, and you know without knowing that his mark is no longer red.

The black line on your wrists feels like it is burned into your vision forever, and fear keeps your movements stilted, your flesh cold, your mind numb.

* * *

When you see Karkat again, first period in bio, neither of you say anything to each other. Acting as though nothing has changed is something of a second nature to you, but the two of you are constantly looking at each other, observing with quick-flit glances, almost touching but never quite, almost speaking but never daring.

You can’t focus in class, and when the bell rings and it’s time to go, Karkat turns to you and says, softly, “You want to eat lunch with me?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, the instincts screaming at you to _run far away before everything burns to the ground_ , and you say in a voice barely above a whisper, “I would like nothing more.”

* * *

“Her name was Jade.”

Karkat points to the first line on his wrist, a pale line on dark skin.

“She died when she was eleven. Crushed by a wardrobe, when she was pretending to discover Narnia or something. I’m not sure what happened, but it fell somehow and she died almost instantly. So they tell me, anyway.”

He points to the next line.

“This was Gamzee.

“He was a stoner. I don’t even know what I saw in him, to this day, but what we had was – serendipitous. We just sort of clicked right away, and that was that. He got himself killed from an overdose, marijuana I think, a few months ago. Ran into some sort of workshop and got himself chopped in - well, never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

His finger brushes over the black line, and at the tingling you put your fingers on your matching one, as he looks over to you.

“You better not die on me, Dave.”

The way he says your name sends shivers up your spine, husky and dark and coarse just like the rest of him, and you don’t spend too much time dwelling on it.

“Same goes to you,” you say. Karkat smiles slightly and says nothing, and there is a sharpness to him, a challenge that you haven’t seen before, as you touch your own scarred lines, first the one nearest to your palm.

“This was John.

“He died when he was twelve. Carbon monoxide poisoning when his dad accidentally left the car idling with their garage closed. He was going to be driven to my place for a playdate at the time, and when Bro got the call, all he told me was that John couldn’t make it. The next time I saw him, he was in his coffin.”

You can see John’s blue eyes in your mental vision, his bright gleam of a smile, as you move to the next line. Karkat hasn’t said anything, and while you are afraid, you think you will be okay.

“Her name was Terezi.”

You have to close her eyes when you hear her frenzied laugh crack through your ear. You don’t open them as you continue to speak.

“She was blinded when she was very young, but she was unstoppable. Loud, brash, fierce, all of that. She didn’t care what others thought of her. But then she died, by falling down the stairs.”

Neither of you say anything for some time, but then you open your eyes and lift your shades into your hair, staring Karkat square in the eye. He doesn’t waver, not even at your scarlet-eyed gaze.

“It’s not going to be easy, loving me,” you say.

“Really?” He reaches out and touches your cheek, briefly, lightly, a stroke of a feather as he whispers, “Because I’ve managed fine for a few months now.”

“We’re isolated from everyone else,” you say quietly, leaning into his hand, your eyes dropping to the table below. “This spells the end of us ever breaking out of it.”

“Fuckers don’t know what they’re missing,” Karkat says blandly, “and nor do they care.”

He reaches over and takes your hand. He hasn’t replaced his armband, and so you keep your sleeve rolled up, revealing the gleaming black lines for all to see.

“We’ll make it work,” he says, and there is a look in his eyes that says he will see the world burn if anyone says otherwise.

You nod mutely, lacing your fingers through his. His skin is cool the touch, dry and calloused and shades darker than yours. He bites his fingernails so short they must bleed. There’s a kink in his index finger, from a break that never healed quite right.

“I believe you,” you reply, because there’s nothing else that needs to be said.


	2. chasseurs de frisson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave Strider likes to stand in the middle of wide open fields during thunderstorms. Karkat Vantas likes to climb on everything under the sun no matter what the weather is like.
> 
> They meet unexpectedly, just like everything else they do in life, and that suits them just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this was written for [this wonderful person](http://callie-nope-and-the-strilondes.tumblr.com/). And, once again, happy holidays and I hope you enjoy!

Statistically, finding your soul mate should be close to impossible. Never mind the fact that the system ensured your other half was your age within a year, that they weren’t dead already or weren’t far in the future – there are more than seven billion people in the world, and the likelihood of finding yours was so slim you might as well try to cut a carrot with your finger.

They say that destiny will lead you to them, though, that one day you’ll look into a stranger’s eyes and know immediately that they are the one you’ll want to spend the rest of your life with. Considering how many people do end up finding their soul mate, you can’t completely rule out the possibility. Anything could happen, just as it could be anyone – all you had to do was keep making eye contact, fingers crossed behind your back as you greeted yet another person and shook their hand.

You wouldn’t say you’re afraid of never finding them, but you can’t say that the fear isn’t there.

* * *

You name is Dave Strider. You can’t see the future, but you can damn well guess where it will lead. You’ve already given up on finding a soul mate, way before most do, and you honestly don’t give a fuck whenever someone does find theirs. Better not keep your hopes up; it’s a win-win situation, because if you don’t find The One you won’t be disappointed, but if you do, all the better. To be honest, you think it’s a ton of bullshit sometimes. Soul mates, really? Who the hell has the time to play god and determine whom gets paired up with whom? Is it a random number generator sort of thing? What happens if you end up not liking the person you’re supposed to paired with, or you end up liking someone you’re not paired with – except oh wait, that’s not supposed to happen ever. Silly you.

In the meantime, you take risks, because life is gray and monotonous and if you want anything from it you have to live it on the edge. That’s why the minute you hear about the thunderstorm, you throw Bro the barest of goodbyes before you’re out like a flash. He’s not concerned; you haven’t gotten yourself killed yet, and you don’t plan to. Your trusty bike is waiting for you outside and there is no one about in the empty streets of Derse when you hop on, speeding down the roads, splashing through puddles and braving the rain. The drops sting at the speeds you’re going and thunder rumbles in the distance.

You’re already wet and cold when you screech to halt at the Derse-Prospit borders and quickly hide your bike under some leaves and whatever other shit you can find. You don’t care about what happens to it, since it’s a piece of crap, but you still want it there when you came back because it’s _your_ piece of crap and you’ll need it to get back to the apartment. After it’s been secured, you go out into the open, empty plain, rain soaking you to the bone.

Lightning strikes nearby, causing the hairs to rise on your skin. A grin crosses your lips as you continue forward, thunder roaring in your ears, raising your face towards the sky, rain pelting your skin. Your arms rise up, as if to embrace the stormy clouds above, and you let out a laugh, wild and free, as lightning strikes again, this time at a tree in the distance. It goes down with a violent cracking sound, flames bursting across its leaves and trunk.

You feel alive, now, standing alone against the elements, the sky so dark you can hardly see through your shades, your flesh cold and clammy and wet, your clothes clinging to you like a second skin. You might die in the next lightning strike, and you do not care. You absolutely do not care.

You don’t know how long you stay out, roaming in the empty, grassy field, standing up and facing the wrath of the sky, lightning edging down jaggedly, so close but not close enough, thunder raging in your eardrums. You only know when the storm begins to pass, and then the sense of euphoria passes and you feel yourself slip back into Dave Strider: Ordinary Life Edition, where you are never sad but never happy, never depressed but never excited. Life is a blank slate to you and has always been empty of words; what little text that has been written takes up a tiny corner and is filled with the danger you have put yourself into, just to get the thrill of feeling your heart beat, your breath fill your lungs, your eyes see the world.

When you trudge back to your bike and cycle home, you see a figure flitting from building to building, a wet, bright red hoodie pulled tightly against his person, and as he coils and leaps in a neat and practiced jump you resolve to touch up on your parkour skills.

* * *

You land hard with a roll and are your feet in an instant, the hood of your sweatshirt slipping from your head as you do so, and suddenly you are aware of the feral grin on your face as you throw yourself off of the building, reaching out to cling to the window and scrabbling upwards to pull yourself onto the roof, ignoring the long scratches the chipped wood scores on the fabric of your jeans.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you like to climb. You also like to fall, provided you don’t get hurt too badly, and you pause on the roof, one hand bracing yourself on the chimney of whoever’s house you’re on, to survey the landscape in front of you. The worn, sloped roofs of Prospit seem to stretch on forever, eventually rising into tall, proud structures of churches and rich men’s mansions, falling into the poorer, flatter structures you yourself call home. You can already spy your place from here, marked with a strip of red paint hastily slopped on the side of a board, and you waste no time scouting out a route before being to run towards the building next to the one you are on presently. You land lightly and never break stride.

You slip halfway there, on a roof with tiles still slick from the rain, and you slide and only just manage to grab the edge of it with your fingers, your heart thumping once, twice before you pull yourself up. Falling is the best part, the thought of falling, almost falling – that was the thrill, what made you feel the blood pumping through your veins, what made you come back for this sort of bullshit again and again and again. It could be worse, you could be addicted to drugs and instead you’re addicted to climbing, falling, jumping, running, exercise. You honestly love it and it doesn’t affect your grades or anything, so it doesn’t cause too much harm, just confusion and occasionally pain on your part.

By the time you make it back, the sun’s out, as if the thunderstorm never even happened. There’s a cyclist on the road, helmetless, no hands, texting on his phone, blonde hair pressed flat against his skull, shades pressed against his nose, clothes clinging to his ribs, and you make a mental note to see if you could do that, whenever or if ever you got a bike.

* * *

You go to school and recognize the hoodie almost immediately. He apparently recognizes you as well, as he inclines his head and lifts a hand in greeting. You return the wave with a nod, and then the two of you go your separate ways.

You’d never noticed the kid before, not even with his eye-catching attire, but even you can tell there’s more to it than first glance implies. He hunches over his textbooks, counterbalancing the hefty backpack he wears, but you’d seen him flying through the air earlier – he’s got muscle, lean and corded, and even with his height (not short, not tall is what you’d describe it as) he likely packs a punch.

His hair his black and slightly curly; his skin is dark and his hands are flecked with scars and scratches. You hadn’t been able to see his eyes through his bangs, but you suppose you’ll get another chance later, as you file into your math class and pull out your notes. Rose seats herself next to you soon after, and you look over to see her precise cursive handwriting lining lavender in the notebook. Your paper is a scrawl of letters and numbers and symbols in explosive red ink.

“How was the thunderstorm yesterday?” she asks you, casually, a dangerous glint in her fuchsia eyes.

You shrug and don’t answer. She doesn’t press.

* * *

The sunglasses guy ends up being in your biology class. You’d never noticed him before, but the minute he walks in, his head turns towards you and a tiny smirk quirks his lips; he must have seen you jumping around like the moron you are, and he sets his stuff at his own desk (three seats forward, two to the right) before ambling over and slipping into the seat before yours.

“Dave Strider,” he says, holding out his hand. You can’t see his eyes.

“Karkat Vantas.” You shake. His grip is firm, and his touch sends a small thrill up your arm. You find yourself missing the contact the moment lets go, though you don’t let it show on your face. “Nice biking.”

“Thanks. Saw you bust some sweet parkour moves on the roof the other day. Think I might want to try it later.”

“You’re going to fall if you’re not used to it.”

“Sounds like my kind of thing, then,” he says with a flash of teeth, and you like him immediately, a rarity these days, as he adds, “No fun in anything without a little risk.”

“Damn straight,” you say, smirking, and he nods in approval.

He returns to his seat when the desk’s occupant demands he move, and you don’t miss the way he sneak glances at you for the rest of class. Apparently you hadn’t been the only one to feel – _something_ when you had touched his hand.

* * *

Karkat is right, you end up slipping and falling, never quite dropping to the ground far below, but the feeling is close enough that you feel the trill of fear and excitement in your heart. He helps you up, and every single time his fingers brush your skin, something crackles between you.

You’re perched in a church’s bell tower in the rich sector of Prospit when you take a break. It’s late, now, the stairs gleaming from above, the lights glaring from the city. The wind blows fiercely this high above the ground as you gaze out. Karkat is a warm presence besides you, sitting close but not too close, and behind you, the enormous golden bells hangs still and quiet.

His voice is husky when he asks, “Are you afraid?”

You give Karkat an incredulous glance through your shades. He can’t see it, of course, but by his expression, you get the idea he already knows the answer.

“No,” you say matter-of-factly. “I don’t scare easy.”

“Same. S’why I climb.”

“For the thrill.”

“Yeah.”

“Like I said. No point in anything if there’s no risk.”

You can see his teeth gleam white in the dark. “Yeah.” Neither of you speak for a while, and then he says, “You get it. First time anyone ever has.”

“Back at you.”

“I should fucking think so.”

You both stay for a few minutes longer before beginning the climb down – more dangerous than the climb up, in your opinion – and you only remain together until you’re on the ground and then back up on another house again before splitting. He lives in Prospit, you live in Derse, opposite directions but houses close enough that you go to the same school somehow, and you make a deal to meet again the following night.

* * *

Dave doesn’t have friends, you learn quickly enough. Good ones, anyway; his sister (half-sister? Cousin? You’re not sure) Rose makes an effort to talk to him, but she spends more time than not with her soul mate, who also happens to be your friend who doesn’t understand why you like to ‘almost kill yourself’ every night.

He snorts when you tell him that’s what Kanaya thinks, and says, “If that were it, we’d both be dead by now,” and you know already that eating with him will be much more entertaining than remaining at your table of loonies even before he adds, “Bet she and Rose keep a file and attempt to guess what’s wrong with you in your free time.”

“Like I’d bet against that,” you respond acidly, and think quietly to yourself that Dave’s laugh is nice.

You’ve seen him talk to people before – Jake English, for one, Jade Harley, Roxy Lalonde, he seems to be pretty all right with Aradia Megido – but he’s more of a mysterious loner than anything else, silent and unreadable and much, much smarter than most of his peers give him credit for. Because of this, you don’t miss how much he opens up to you, expression flitting across his face, how he actually smiles, though they are small. He means something to you, too, and you didn’t quite think dare to wonder why.

Sollux catches the two of you leaving school together later that week, and he stops you in order to pull you aside and ask you why the fuck you hadn’t been at John’s weekly movie night the other day.

“I’ve been busy.”

“With _him_?” Sollux fails to lower his voice enough, and you barely manage to keep a straight face as you see Dave snort, covering a smile with his hand.

“If you want to think that, then sure, I’ve been spending all twenty-four hours of my life with Dave Strider in passionate lovemaking for the sole purpose of pissing John and his merry crew off. Fucking stupid of me to think I could hide it forever!”

The look on Sollux’s face is priceless, and you can see Dave turn his head away, shoulders shaking. You’re still laughing at him when Sollux says, “Tell me you’re lying, KK, I might be thcarred forever.”

“Are you really that gullible? Of course I’m not banging him, Jesus Christ.” You see Dave nod approvingly as you lie effortlessly, “We’ve got a group project lab thing in our bio class, we were working on it yesterday.”

“Fair enough,” Sollux says grudgingly, he being the number one opponent to anything related to group projects, and then he warns you, “JN wath _not_ happy that you weren’t there to back him up on hith thtupid romance movie.”

“Tell him to grow a fucking backbone and get better tastes in visual literature, then.”

Sollux agrees to do so and bids you farewell, casting Dave a half-curious, half-suspicious glance that Dave returns with entirely no expression on his face, sending an unsettled Sollux scuttling away. “Passionate lovemaking?” he asks as soon as he's out of earshot, walking away from the school, and you let out a groan as he laughs. “Relax, dude, ain’t like your soul mate isn’t out there. One day.”

“One day,” you agree, disbelievingly, and then you both look at each other and say nothing at all.

* * *

Karkat teaches you the finer points of parkour during the evenings, after you power through your homework and half-ass studying for tests. (Your grades have been suffering lately, but no one, not even Bro, cares; they’re still all A’s and B’s.) He shows you how to roll, how to time grabs to ledges in case you fall, how to use momentum more efficiently, and by the end of the month you have races across the cities, flying over roofs and swerving around chimneys, leaping through the occasional tree and balancing over thin planks, laughing wildly and dancing onward through the night.

In the end the two of you are sitting back-to-back on the bell tower of a Derse church this time, purple hallowed halls with a bell of ebony resting on one side of you, a sheer drop to the concrete below on the other. He is warm and solid against you, and you find yourself closing your eyes, the wind slithering through your hair.

“Do you ever take those fucking shades off, Dave?”

You say, “Light hurts my eyes. Plus, irony.”

“Fucking irony.” Both of you snigger, and then he asks, “Medical thing?”

“Yeah, born with it. They’re bright red.”

“Mine too.”

You open your eyes and turn your head slightly. You can’t see him. “Yours what?”

“Mine are scarlet. Like blood.”

“Not sensitive, though?”

“Probably would’ve gone blind by now if they were; Prospitians like their light.”

“Lucky you.”

“I guess.”

The wind is strong enough to whip the warmth away from your skin, and you hug your sweater more tightly around yourself, feeling Karkat reach back and draw his hood over his hair.

“Why do you hide them behind your bangs?”

Karkat jumps, surprised, and you flash an arm out to keep him from tumbling to certain doom below. He mutters his thanks as he asks, “My eyes?”

“No, your eyebrows, asshat.”

He snorts, and then there’s a long pause, and then he says, “I guess I’m afraid. People usually find their soul mates about now. Middle school. High school. College. There’s a lot of bullshit stigma for those who don’t.”

“Singles?”

“Yeah.” He sighs, slouches against you. You compensate by leaning a little more weight against him. “It’s... better if it’s by choice. Less phobia, less comments. That’s what my brother does – says he’s celibate.”

“So you’ve given up.”

A heartbeat of a pause, and then he agrees, “Yeah, I have. You?”

“Years ago.”

He grunts, and neither of you say anything for a long time.

* * *

“Bro? I brought a friend home. Please don’t sock him in the face with a smuppet – ” and then you have to flash out a hand in front of aforementioned friend’s head to block the garishly-colored plush rump as it sails through the air, causing Karkat to flinch and let out the most adorable squeak you’ve ever heard in your life. You don’t dare tell him as such, though, as you berate, “Way to listen to your kid brother, man.”

“Love you too, Dave.” Your brother seemingly materializes in front of the two of you, and he looks Karkat up and down, taking in his cautious stance, hunched over, bright red hoodie with ragged jeans and worn white sneakers before sticking a hand out. “Yo. I’m this brat’s familial paternal parental unit. You can call me Bro.”

Karkat carefully reaches out a hand out and Bro pumps it once, solidly, before vanishing and reappearing in front of the TV. He’s watching MLP reruns again, and you put a hand on Karkat’s shoulder and steer him away from the main room into yours. You can feel the tension in his muscles, and he doesn’t relax until you close the door to your bedroom, whereupon he demands, “The hell’s up with your brother?”

“He’s cool, I promise. Just takes some getting used to.”

“ _Getting used to_ my ass. It’s fucking unnatural how fast he moves. I don’t feel safe here.”

“Relax, my room is sacred ground. That is the Strider code.”

“Of course you have a family code.”

“Listen, there ain’t no one as ironic as us.”

He snorts and drifts over to your shelf, where transparent glass containers rest primly, displaying their contents for all the world to see. You feel a small rush of affection for them as Karkat asks, “What the hell are these?”

“Dead things in jars.”

“You like having this kind of shit?”

“Yeah. It helps me remember the reality of what I like to do, that death is just around the corner if I’m not careful.”

He processes this for a few moments. Then he nods and says, “Make sense,” and you think you can see his eyes glint behind the slight curls of his hair. “I just try not to go splat on the sidewalk.”

“Probably helps a bit.”

He flashes you a quicksilver grin and says, “Yeah, a bit.”

The two of you then settle on the ground, sweeping dirty clothes and wires away from you to clear a space, and take out notebooks and binders and whatever else out of your backpacks. It’s almost a joke that sometime after Karkat’s excuse to Sollux, the two of you are paired up for a lab in your shared chemistry class. Lab reports, you’ve learned, take much longer than you think they will if you’re not careful, and Karkat fortunately agrees with this sentiment and doesn’t mind finishing it a couple of days early.

It’s peaceful, for the most part, until both of you have the brilliant idea to scale the apartment by going out your window. Karkat leads the way up, somehow finding handholds and places to put his feet on the flat bricks, and you follow him as best as you are able, grinning wildly as the ground continues to pull away from the two of you. By the time you get the top, your arms ache, as do your legs, and when you flop down onto the gravel Karkat is quick to join you.

“I thought you were used to this,” you say.

“This building is egregiously tall and I won’t stand for it.”

“Clearly. Wanna strife?”

“You think I bring weapons wherever I go? Who the hell do you think I am?”

“You’re Karkat Vantas,” you say blandly, “I guarantee you have something in your backpack.”

“Fuck you so hard for being right.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Hahaha how about no. Capital letters, edged with goddamn red, bursting to the seams with how much I disagree with this sentiment so much so that they explode in a cloud of terror and my own disgust. Look at what you’ve done, Dave. I hope you’re sorry.”

“Whatever the fuck you say. Nice metaphor, though.”

“I try. We take the stairs or go the right way?”

You smirk and pull yourself upright, getting to your feet and gesturing towards the sheer drop before you. “After you, sir.”

The climb down is significantly more arduous than up, as it generally tends to be, and at one point your feet slip and you hang only by your fingers. Fear and adrenaline rushes through your system, making you grin as you regain your footing, and Karkat is laughing and so are you as you finally slip through your window, finding the door open and a nice collection of smuppets perched above your door. As soon as you close said door it’ll all fall on your head, and you grimace as you pluck a sword from your wall and Karkat digs through his backpack, eventually pulling out two crescent-moon blades wrapped in loose fabric.

“Sickles, really?”

“You’ve got a katana, you have no right to judge.”

“Yo, rude. It’s a sword, and it’s sharp, and it’s awesome. Don’t even hate.”

“Sure.” He stretches the word out obscenely and neatly dodges your halfhearted fist.

You end up strifing on the roof for over an hour and neither of you regret it, even when you both return covered in blood and cuts with huge smiles pulling at your faces, and a part of you sorely wishes that you could do this sort of stupid bullshit with Karkat forever.

* * *

“Do either of you ever look people in the eye?”

Dave raises an eyebrow at the query, as do you, and stares John straight on. “Why do you care?”

John raises his hands in a pacifying gesture. “I was just curious! You always wear sunglasses and Karkat always hides behind his hair. Don’t you want to know if the person you’re talking to is your soul mate?”

“Not particularly,” you say, returning your attention to your economics textbook. “We’re in high school. I don’t want to deal with that shit yet.”

“What he said,” Dave says, jerking a thumb in your direction.

“But it’s so exciting,” John says, horribly cheerful. “Just imagine, finding someone you can do anything with. It would be like having a best friend, only better!”

“Sounds awesome,” Dave says blandly.

John huffs, falsely indignant, and tells you with a laugh, “Not like you and Karkat need anyone else, of course! Hehe.”

There is a moment of absolute stillness, when all noise seems to fade away from your ears and all you can see is John’s earnest face. Time slows, if only for a moment, and then you and Dave exchange glances and the spell is broken.

“Whatever you say, dude,” Dave says. His voice sounds oddly hollow but it’s convincing enough for John, who laughs again and scampers off to join his friend Vriska at his usual lunch table.

Neither of you say anything for a few moments.

“You think – ”

“We could – ”

“You first.”

“No, you.”

“No, really, go ahead.”

“Aren’t you a gentleman,” you say, but he doesn’t smile, so you buckle down too and tell him quietly, “What if he’s right?”

“What if he isn’t?” Dave replies just as quietly, and his hand rises to touch his shades, as if he might take them off. He doesn’t. “It’s fucking stupid, but I’m afraid to check.”

“So am I.”

“Yeah.”

“But when has fear every stopped us?”

Dave stops, whatever he was going to say lost, and then there is a miniscule quirk to his lip and says, “Guess you’re right. But do you really want to do it here and now?”

“Fuck no. This is the shittiest place for a revelation like that. If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it right.”

“Truer words have ne’er been spoken.”

The deal is sealed with a solid, warm fistbump. _Fistbunp_ , Dave corrects, and you don’t bother telling him he’s a fuckup because he’s your fuckup and there’s - there’s something there, something of value in those layers of irony and douchebaggery.  You would know, you’ve seen it, his gentle intensity when it comes to things he loves, his fierce protectiveness, his selflessness when push comes to shove.

You’ll wait, however long it takes.

* * *

You have no idea how to go about it until you see the forecast for a thunderstorm on the weekend.

You grin as the gears click and grind forward in your mind, and the more you think about it, everything falls into place.

* * *

It’s a weekend and thunder is rumbling outside when you get the text.

TG: im waiting at the usual spot

You grin and put the phone on your bedside table as you zip out, sparing your older brother a small wave before your hood’s up and you’re scrabbling up the walls your house. You can see Dave from here, sitting pretty on the nearby roof, and you quickly make your way over to him, wondering what exactly he’s planning.

“This way,” he says, and you follow him nimbly as he leads. You’re going towards the border of Derse and Prospit, near Skaia’s city limits, and you don’t bother asking when he drops from a house and runs the rest of the way, you having to rush to keep pace. He leads you to an empty field. It’s starting to rain, and he slows to a walk as he glances at you.

“You don’t have to,” he says, as he gestures to the plain. You understand what he wants to do immediately, and you give him an incredulous look through your hair as he says sheepishly, “I don’t promise anything, but I haven’t been struck yet.”

“Moron,” you say flatly, and he grins and offers a hand to you. You take it, feeling giddy despite yourself, and then he leads you out onto the grass. The ground is moist, but not soaked yet; you get the feeling it’s going to be muddy by the time this is over, if you’re still alive.

It’s raining in earnest in just a few minutes, and you watch Dave as he releases your hand, turning his head upwards and reaching up to remove his shades, tucking them into the collar of his shirt as his eyes close. Delicate blond eyelashes cast shadows over freckled cheeks; he is beautiful in a way you can’t hope to describe, as thunders shakes the air and lightning briefly casts his features into sudden relief.

The hairs stand up on the back of your neck when more lightning flashes close by, and you throw the little caution you have into the wind and copy Dave, turning your face towards the sky and letting the rain pelt you, icy cold and easily piercing through the harsh red of your sweater. The wind blows wildly. The ground shakes. Dave is laughing next to you, free, maybe a little crazy, and you find yourself joining him almost without realizing it. There was no easier way to know you were alive than put yourself in the face of nature’s savagery; this you know better than anyone, except perhaps the boy standing next to you, and you let yourself relax and release in the howling winds, the crack of thunder, the sudden bursts of light and electricity.

It’s over as soon as it began, and when your eyes open again, the rain softening to a lighter drizzle, the thunder rumbling as it races after the lightning miles away, Dave is carefully not looking at you. His shades are still hung on the collar of his shirt, and when his hand reaches out to grab yours, you know he is letting you choose.

“Dave.”

He cracks a tiny smile, still looking down at the ground as if it is the most interesting thing in the world. “Yeah?”

“Look at me.”

He does, his eyes as bloody red as he had said they were, and you flinch as an adrenaline rush surges through you, chanting something so nonsensical you know exactly what it means. You’ve been dreaming of this moment for years, you hopeless romantic you, and here it was with a person you never expected to ever fall in love with.

And yet, and yet.

“Dave?” It comes out breathless.

“Yeah.”

“You should stay with me forever.”

He smiles again, a beautiful wide smile you haven’t ever seen before, and the hand holding yours tightens.

“You know,” he says, “I think... I think I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There comes a time in every writer’s life that one absolutely must write a story in an alternate universe with soul mates. This is one of those times. Even if an xkcd what-if answer completely undermines it (all hail the mighty Randall Munroe).
> 
> As a general note: do not do what Dave likes to do, and don’t do what Karkat likes to do unless you’ve had practice. Be safe and don’t get yourself hurt by doing stupid things! Your life is important.


End file.
